


A Best Man's Duties

by teamrocket



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Tagging more stuff as it happens. Because as River Song would say "Spoilers", Wholock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamrocket/pseuds/teamrocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things start happening after Sherlock dies, or is it just the grief talking?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Stage of Grief Isn't Just a River Running Through Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall and its immediate aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [Becca](http://doctorklaineisnotonfire.tumblr.com/). There will be eventual Wholock, I promise, but this is probably mainly a Post-Reichenbach fic with a side of Wholock plot. I'm not sure about the rating, so bear with me if it changes as I write more.  
> I can't help starting new fics and not updating my old ones. I will finish everything eventually; I just can't help it if plot bunnies come to me in my sleep.  
> Everything is from John's POV, and I may or may not agree with some/all of what he thinks.

 He watches as they wheel him – Sherlock – away, standing on the sidewalk in the spot that Sherlock...that Sherlock _fell._ John couldn't seem to form a coherent thought, words blurring into each other. He watches, stunned and in silence – except that he was pretty sure his mouth was moving – but the thump of his heart is overwhelmingly loud in his ears, and he couldn't hear anything else. No one notices him, anyway.

Time had seemed to slow down before – as if someone had taken it and stretched it out as far as it would go. Yet, now, it seemed as if the aforementioned someone had abruptly let go, time snapping together like a metal spring. Life was whirling around the army doctor like it always did – unaware of what it had just lost – while he alone was feeling an overwhelming dose of emotions. And yet, he feels so _numb_.

John watches as the ambulance turns the corner, carting Sherlock away in it, and the people slowly disperse. He stands in the middle of the puddle of blood. _They're all so..._ mechanical _._ He realizes then what the last thing he said to Sherlock face to face was.

The horror must register on his face because a few strangers give him their condolences as they pass him, continuing with their lives, unaffected.

 _What must it be like to live blissfully unaware of death?_ he wondered absentmindedly. He stands there stoically, unmoving, in the blood, pretending that it isn't Sherlock's. Or, rather, it is, but he had simply dropped it while he was heating up his...Bunsen burner...or something. _Dammit, Sherlock, clean this mess up, you wanker._

He looks up, to the roof – the roof where Sherlock _fell_ – and crumples, sinking onto the bloodied sidewalk, collapsing. He is crying, but he is also laughing, at himself, at his insanity. He laughs at himself for seeing – for imagining – the yellow mist – or is it light? – on the rooftop. He laughs at himself while crying for Sherlock, for himself, for life that is unbearably cruel; he doesn't know what he is doing. He is both painfully aware of the present, it ticking away, another second since Sherlock di – _fell_ – gone, and painfully unaware of the present, time slurring together, the people and cars around him moving so fast.

No one approaches him now. No one approaches the madman, the sad man, weeping for his best friend, sitting in an unsightly _large_ puddle of blood. No one gives him their condolences now or even informs him that his best friend's blood is seeping into his trousers. Disgusted mothers are pulling their scared daughters away from him, shooting him dirty looks. Passing pedestrians all walk around him, in a circle, as if they were all afraid of catching his grief.

He watches the dazzling rays of yellow dance on the rooftop through his tears until Lestrade arrives to escort him away.

*

Sherlock is on the news that day. John blankly watches them talk about his best friend, neither truly hearing nor seeing them, but at the same time, he does. Mrs. Hudson makes a few disgusted remarks at the telly and then falls silent, watching him worriedly.

They don't mention Moriarty. They don't mention any of the good things about Sherlock. They don't even show him sobbing on the sidewalk where he fell.

*

The funeral is the next day; Mycroft is anything if not efficient. John promises to himself in the taxi that he won't cry. He, of course, breaks that promise.

He also punches Mycroft in the face. He feels the blood on his fist before he sees it. Mycroft just lets him, doesn't fight back, and walks away, cupping his nose. Lestrade has to pull him away and tell him to stop shouting obscenities at a funeral.  
Later, when he breaks his promise and cries in front of Sherlock's grave, he realizes that he just met Sherlock's mother for the first time. Or, rather, she met him while he was busy attacking her other son and spouting expletives. He wonders how Sherlock would feel about it.

John shakes his head and walks away from the grave. He notices a dark figure in the corner of his eyes, and a quote from... _somewhere_ drifts into his head.

“ _Look. Exactly where you don't want to look, where you never want to look. The corner of your eye.”_

He can't remember where the quote is from, and he racks his brain for an answer, but it doesn't come. It's understandable; after all, he didn't sleep all night, channeling Sherlock with his insomnia. No, Sherlock didn't have insomnia; he always chose not to sleep. John wonders if Sherlock's dreams made sense, or if they were as crazy as everyone else's.

Nevertheless, he turns, but there's nothing there after all. No tall detective in his black trench coat with the collar turned up to his cheekbones. John's disappointed, but he doesn't know what he expected, anyway. He wonders if Sherlock was buried in his coat, or if Mycroft had him buried in something else; the funeral was closed casket. It wouldn't be right for Sherlock to be wearing something else besides the coat, anyway. John wants to call Mycroft and ask, but he thinks of how difficult the rest of the conversation would be and decides not to.

He joins Mrs. Hudson and returns to the flat.

*

John goes back to counseling. He doesn't want to, but he knows he needs to. He is consumed with grief.

“Why today?” his therapist speaks, as if she doesn't know already. John wonders how much training she had to do to master the calm, emotionless mask that all therapists had. Well, the therapists on the telly, anyway; they all had the same mask that she had. John wonders if they teach it in therapist school, or wherever the hell they go. He considers becoming a therapist to learn how to hide his grief that was clearly etched in every line in his face.

As he speaks the words, he knows. He knows that he doesn't believe them himself. He knows that he doesn't believe that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead. Ella, his therapist, reads this clearly in his face. She asks him if he really believes that in her bland therapist voice. He decides to help her out by trying to help himself and answers honestly.

“I know he's dead,” he tells her, “I saw it for myself. I felt it, the absence of his pulse. I know he's dead, but I don't believe it. And I know I'm crazy, and in grief, and that denial is probably one of the stages of grief, I think, but I can't help but feel that he's still alive. And I've hallucinated yellow mist on the roof where he fell, and I see him out of the corner of my eye, and I know that he won't be there when I turn, but I can't help but feel like this is just another _Sherlock Holmes_ case.”

Ella finishes writing something in her notes on him. “But John, you have to accept that he's dead.” she says gently.

“I – right.” His jaw swings shut, and he remains quiet for the rest of the session, save for the occasional noncommittal hum at her questions.

He decides, at the end, that he doesn't want to be a therapist after all because he doesn't want to ever have to deal with patients like him that are so far gone and beyond help – that just sit there, an empty shell of a person. The thought of Sherlock being a therapist and being forced to put up with those people makes him smile, his eyes crinkling, and Ella looks at him inquisitively, but he doesn't tell her. He just gives a small shake of a head, and she presses her lips together tightly and bids him goodbye.

*

He goes to St. Bart's to see Molly. More specifically, he goes to see Molly about his trousers. John is sick of people telling him that they're _sorry for his loss_ , but he listens to Molly's because he knows she's being sincere and not just polite. He can tell that she's cried, too; he could tell even if he didn't see her at the funeral.

There is an awkward pause, and then John presents her his folded up jeans. They're the pair that he wore when Sherlock...fell, the pair with all the blood. She looks confused, and he hastily explains.

“They – look, I know this is stupid, and that I should be handling it better, but I can't accept it. This isn't fair to you, but I need a favor, Molly. I need to know, if the blood's... _his_.” He can't say his name; he has difficulty even saying the last word as is, but Molly's eyes widen in understanding. She looks like she wants to say something or perhaps cry, but she simply takes the folded up trousers and bids him well.

Later, Molly calls him back to the lab, only to confirm that the tests showed that the blood is, indeed, Sherlock's. She looks at John the same way that everyone looks at John now, like he's fragile and made out of glass. He might as well be, these days.

He thanks her, and somehow, it leads to him consolidating her that “ _It wasn't your fault”_ and “ _You just did me a favor, Molly, I asked for you to do this”_ and even, “ _Yes, I'm going to be fine, Molly, no I'm not – I just don't know what I expected out of this, that's all.”_ He leaves the hospital feeling guilty for making her cry.

John still can't believe that Sherlock isn't alive anymore. He can accept it, but he can't believe it.

*

Mycroft calls some days after the meeting with the therapist. John lets it ring twice before sighing and punching the green button.

“Yes?” he asks, tense and unforgiving, going straight past the hello.

“I've been in touch with Ms. Thompson,” Mycroft begins. John mentally snorts.

“Read anything of interest?” he prompts.

“Yes, yes, indeed.” John is slightly surprised; he wasn't aware that he said anything of value; he barely said anything at all.

“You allegedly said that you saw yellow mist on the rooftop of St. Bart's?” John's shoulders slump; he doesn't want to talk about his hallucination and how increasingly mentally-unsound Sherlock's death was driving him.

“Yes,” he grudgingly confirmed. More than anything, he does not want to talk about _feelings_ with Mycroft Holmes, the _Ice King_.

“Could you please describe it?”

“Mycroft, what's this about?” Irritation leaks into his voice. He is a broken man; he doesn't have time for this.

“It's a matter of national importance.” This time, John does snort out loud.

“You always say that, but what does that mean? How could an imagined yellow light caused by excessive grief be 'a matter of national importance?!'”

“Light? I thought it was mist?” John ignores him and remains silent, waiting for an explanation. He hears a sigh at the end of the line and smiles to himself. He could picture the disapproval on the elder Holmes's – the _only_ Holmes's – face right now.

“There are circumstances behind Moriarty's death...” Mycroft hesitates, “that might not be what they seem.” John's breath catches, and he almost drops the phone.

“Like what?” he hears himself ask, his voice hollow.

“You tell me.”

John sighs. “I don't know,” he finally says. “It was bright yellow...I don't know what it was more like – light or mist. It was hard to tell, you know, through the tears.” He pauses and adds, “No one else noticed; I'm not even sure that it was real.”

There is a pause from Mycroft's side of the line.

“Thank you,” he finally says. The conversation falls into an awkward silence. John mentally debates between apologizing for punching him and not. He knows it's the mature thing to do, but he isn't sorry for doing it.

“My nose is fine, by the way,” Mycroft says as if he could read John's mind, which isn't entirely implausible. You never know with the Holmes brothers. “Nothing’s broken, or anything. Mummy won't be pressing charges.”

“Oh.” John leaves it at that. More silence. “Is that it?”

“Yes, I do believe so. I'll phone you if I need anything else.”

“Yes, and keep me updated on it, will you?” John requests, even though they both know he won't. Matters of national importance and all.

Mycroft humors him. “I will. Best wishes, Doctor Watson.” He pauses. “And communicating with your therapist verbally will help with your grief.”

“ _Goodbye_ , Mycroft,” John says irritably between his gritted teeth and hangs up.

Speaking with Mycroft is tiring. Not only because he is Sherlock's brother, and he sold him out to Moriarty to begin with, but also because he's nearly as intelligent as Sherlock, which means he knows. He understands. If he wanted to, he could rattle off all the things John is feeling and the reasons why, Sherlock style.

John hates him for that. He hates him for being another link to remind him. Sherlock never knew what to say – or rather what _not_ to say – when it came to delicate matters such as emotions; Mycroft, however, always knew what to and what not to say – being the British government and all. But Sherlock was always genuine; he never said anything he didn't mean. Anything that Mycroft could say to John would just anger him even more, so he doesn't. Which only serves to infuriate John, as if he's acknowledging his cold-hearted insincerity and doing nothing about it.

John wonders if Mycroft was the one who taught Sherlock that caring is not an advantage. More so, he wonders if Mycroft's the one who taught him that alone protects him. Alone didn't protect Sherlock; alone killed him.Sherlock didn't die because he jumped off of St. Bart's; he died suffocating on all his aloneness. Stepping off of the roof was just a side effect. He died, thinking – always thinking – he was alone, but that's not true; he had John. He would always have John. Even now.

Like Sherlock, Mycroft was condescending. It was a Holmes family trait to be naturally condescending. The difference was Mycroft was a pompous condescending whereas Sherlock was contemptuous. John prefers Sherlock's contemptuous to Mycroft's pompous. He misses him. He misses the spontaneous violin concertos at three in the _bloody_ morning. He misses the creative mutilations of John's favorite jumpers. He misses the great – albeit misguided – extents Sherlock went to to atone for the mutilation of his favorite jumpers on the rare occasion that he noticed John's displeasure. John misses his brutal honesty. He wishes Sherlock is still here, beside him, possibly ranting irately about Mycroft, his archenemy.

Mycroft may be the closest thing the world still has to Sherlock's massive intellect, but when it comes to brilliance, Mycroft could never come close.


	2. The Not-Doctor and his Wife Shop at Tesco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to terms that he has to move out of 221B. Or rather, Mrs. Hudson does, anyway.

 He doesn't pick up the phone anymore. Not for Mike, Lestrade, or even Harry. The only one he'd pick up for is Mycroft, for news on the circumstances surrounding Sherlock's death, but Mycroft never calls. Aside from strangers, the only people he sees are Mrs. Hudson, Ella, and Sarah. John leaves the flat only for work and groceries. He can feel Mrs. Hudson's worried gaze on him, following him from room to room, whenever she comes up to make sure he's not dead. She tries a couple of times to approach him about her concern, but he always skirts around the topic, and eventually, she stops commenting.

John knows that Sherlock is dead, but he still doesn't believe it. In the flat, Sherlock's so alive and yet so dead. Everything in 221B reminds him of Sherlock, but it also reminds him of Sherlock's absence. Sometimes he sits in his chair and watches Sherlock's empty one, where his friend should be. Other times, he sits in Sherlock's chair, his elbow on the armrest, propping up his head, sitting where Sherlock should be.

In the nights immediately following Sherlock's death, John had slept in his friend's bed. The first night, his scent on the pillows and the sheet was overwhelming; Sherlock didn't sleep a lot, but he had slept the night before the police raid. John had cried in his bed that night, burying his face into the bedsheets. The scent of his best friend was comforting and familiar. It was like being away from home for a long time and finally returning and remembering everything that was missed. It _was_ home.

The following nights, the scent started to fade, his own scent masking Sherlock's, and John was forced to stop. It reminded himself too much of how life was carrying on, leaving his best friend behind, and John alone was stuck trying to hold on, but ultimately aiding the process of moving on.

John knows that he needs to move out, but he can't bring himself to do so. The flat is the same as it was before; even the body parts in the fridge are there untouched, and if John tries hard enough, he can convince himself that the consulting detective is just in the other room, pondering silently. Yet, his hopes are dashed against jagged cliff sides every time he enters the room, and Sherlock is absent. Everything in the flat is connected to Sherlock, and everything in the flat is devoid of Sherlock. It feels as empty as he is inside, his heart full of Sherlock but empty.

He doesn't seriously think about moving out, though, until after all of Sherlock's presence in the flat is used up, and all that remains is reminders of his absence. John can't pretend or reminisce anymore; the entire flat screams at him, and it isn't much better inside his head. He is forced to acknowledge his grief by the barriers that he used to hide from it.

He doesn't accept that he needs to move out until he looks around and notices how everything is his now and now Sherlock's, and it feels overwhelmed and frightened and doesn't know how to solve this. So he has a panic attack in the middle of the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson rushes up at the sound of glass shattering and finds him standing in the middle of the glass-covered floor, throwing jars and bottles across the flat. It's only after she is cradling him that he realizes that he's hyperventilating and shaking. John feels like he should be ashamed, but he curls up in a ball in Mrs. Hudson's arms like a baby and cries. None of Sherlock's beakers and lab equipment survived.

John wants to stay at 221B, but he knows he can't. He halfheartedly convinces himself that he needs to stay for Mrs. Hudson because they've only got each other now, but Mrs. Hudson sees through that and gives him a piercing glare. They both know why he's still here. He's waiting for Sherlock to return.

“He's not coming back,” she gently says one day, finally acknowledging the big elephant in the room. John feels like she punched him in the stomach and knocked all of the air out of him instead.

“I know,” he admits grudgingly, and to his surprise, he really does. Sherlock's not coming back. He's waiting around, letting the past consume him, for nothing. Sherlock would never stand for this if he was alive.

“You can't stay.” She says this like a fact. John looks up at her.

“Are you kicking me out?” he asks half-jokingly. Mrs. Hudson sighs and pats him on the back. He can feel her concern. He can feel her pity.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” she says lightly but firmly. John makes no attempt to appeal; they both know he needs to go. He feels a surge of gratitude towards her.

“I'm going to miss you.”

She smiles sadly at him. “I'll miss you, too, dearie.” John gets up and hugs her. They never did give her enough credit for all that she is. She'd be the only constructive thing he'd be leaving behind. He communicates this through the hug, and she strokes his cheek wordlessly in return.

“You look out for yourself, now,” he says. Mrs. Hudson only gives him a withering look. They both know that he's more of a harm to himself wherever he goes than she ever will be. They never did giver her enough credit, indeed.

*

He gets a flat twenty minutes by tube from 221B. It's a one-bedroom flat that's already partially furnished. The walls are painted a bleak gray, and there are no windows; it's a lot like the flat he lived in before 221B – before _Sherlock –_ but the toilet's a bit less grimy, and at least the neighbors are quiet. It's only a temporary flat, anyway, until he gets his life sorted out for a proper one. Besides, it's affordable, habitable, and the landlord lets him renew his contract on a month-by-month basis; John really cannot handle a new flatmate right now. He doesn't know who his new landlord is, but he wires the money online each month, so it hardly matters.

It's not his home. He doesn't expect it to be. Home is where his heart is, and he left his heart in 221B. He left his heart with Sherlock. Sherlock had it with him when he jumped from the roof, and when he died, John's heart did too. John picked this flat on purpose.So he can move out at the drop of a hat. So he won't get attached. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows that he's still hanging onto the hopes of some wild conspiracy with Sherlock alive and at a position to return someday. John knows this, but he does not confront it, turning a blind eye to his subconscious optimism instead.

But he honestly tries to sort his life out – to live his life in a way that Sherlock would approve of. Because while he'd never stop being sentimental, he could at least start living sensibly again. As a result, things change – things that are not just limited to his living arrangement.

John's always been more of a Sainsbury's person; he likes how good-natured the Sainsbury's ladies on _X Factor_ are. Yet, to cope with his grief, he takes a few precautionary measures because, frankly, he's a little scared of himself right now. He's scared of triggering another panic attack, especially in public. So he gives up Sainsbury's for Tesco.

Sherlock never went grocery shopping; Sherlock seemed to be particularly adverse to performing any of the standard flatmate duties. He seemed to believe that aiding John with his limp and occasionally dishing out a few compliments instead of insults in his direction let him off the hook as far as flatmate duties went; John didn't have to tell him that it was true for the world's only consulting _wanker_ to know. Nevertheless, it wouldn't have killed him to pick up the milk from time to time and clean up his experiments after he was done with them like a good, little genius.

Of course, now, John would gladly pick up the milk and put up with bags of blood next to his jam, compared to the alternative. He'd put up with anything to have Sherlock alive again. But while it was too late for Sherlock, John was still very much alive – although he didn't feel lit – and he was switching supermarkets to keep himself alive. He was switching supermarkets to avoid seeing the automatic doors that Sherlock followed him through, the shopping trolley that Sherlock had persuaded John to push him around in, and the canned fruit display that Sherlock had been _accidentally_ pushed into after one too many cutting deductions based on John's choice of groceries, alone. He was switching supermarkets to avoid the Sainsbury's brand Pad Thai that Sherlock would pretend not to enjoy, the ex-girlfriend employee that Sherlock drove away, and the alleyway behind the store where he and Sherlock made out once for a case, as part of a disguise. Sherlock never went grocery shopping, but he did accompany John to Sainsbury's a few times, so Sainsbury's had to go.

And yet, standing in front of Tesco, John feels a sense of regret, of fond nostalgia towards the competing supermarket. He wants to turn around, to take the Tube to Sainsbury's, to see all the places and things that he saw with Sherlock. But he can't because he doesn't trust himself to stay calm, and he has every right not to. So instead, he walks into Tesco.

The store's changed since John had last been there, almost unrecognizable now; he can't find anything he needs. Of course, John hasn't been here since medical school, so that could be why.

He is putting bread into the trolley when he spots him. John rushes over, his cart skidding wildly, before he could disappear amongst the crowd of shoppers. Hesitantly, he calls out to the man.

“Excuse me, sir, but you aren't David Tennant, are you?” John remembers where the quote at Sherlock's graveside came from now. The man-who-looks-exactly-like-David-Tennant turns around and laughs. _Jesus_ _Christ, he's the spitting image of the actor._

“No, I just look a lot like him. John Smith.” The David-Tennant-look-alike sticks out his hand, and John takes it. He also sounds like David Tennant. Not that John is a huge fan or anything. Because it's one thing to enjoy the show, and it's another to obsessively follow the cast members' doings; he saw the first showing of _Fright Night_ for totally different reasons. Besides, he would never hear the end of it from –

“Pleasure. I'm also John.” John-who-does-not-look-like-the-Tenth-Doctor feels a bit foolish, but in his defense, he really does look like David Tennant. Exactly like him. In fact, he's the first man since Sherlock's death who John's mistaken for someone that isn't Sherlock.

“Well, 'also John,' it's nice meeting you. You have no idea how much people come up to me asking for autographs and such; don't think you're the only one.” John's about the leave, when a blond girl bounces over to John-who-looks-like-David-Tennant with what looks like a package of custard. The surprise must register on his face because the other John hastily explains.

“John, meet my wife. She's not Billie Piper, either. Coincidentally enough, her name's Rose. We met at a Doctor Who convention, and it was like a match made in heaven.”

Rose looks up at her husband. “Oh? Does he think you're David Tennant or something?” John doesn't know whether to fanboy or not.

“Wow. Congratulations, I guess. Nice meeting you two.” He leaves before he makes a fool out of himself in front of two beautiful, yet ordinary, strangers. It's one thing if they're the actual actors, but it's another if it's just lookalikes. Perfect lookalikes, nevertheless, but still lookalikes.

He only realizes after he returns to the flat that he's bought enough tea for two again.

*

 John doesn't have many things. All the furniture in 221B was Mrs. Hudson's, and all the decor, Sherlock's. Other than his clothes, laptop, mobile phone, and illegally-owned Sig Sauer P226R, he owns few else, if any, worldly possessions. The bedsheets he slept on and the cups he drank out of all belongs to Mrs. Hudson; she was a very generous landlady, indeed.

Yet, his new flat isn't as sparsely decorated as one might be led to believe. It _was_ until Mycroft phoned the day after he moved out – moved _in –_ to inform him that Sherlock had left him everything in his will. He hung up promptly before the shocked John Watson could recover and ask about the investigation of his brother's death.

It felt wrong to claim his belongings; it felt wrong to claim a living man's things. Had Sherlock's legacy been reduced to the limited number of inanimate objects that lie before him? Had Moriarty tarnished enough of it so that this was all that remained? John felt completely hollow inside, like he was one of Sherlock's morgue corpses, and the detective had excavated his internal organs. But joke's on them : Sherlock was the cold, bloodied corpse now. Which made Moriarty Sherlock, brandishing the riding crop without a care in the world. So what did that make John? Was he Molly, the silent bystander? Lestrade, who attempted to but resigned from stopping him? John didn't know, but he isn't sure that he wants to know, either.

Some things are just best unsaid.

Nevertheless, John accepts the items, despite the negative feelings that they evoke to hang onto the positive ones. He feels like this is a step backwards in his effort to return to sanity, but it was what Sherlock wanted, and so he'll hold onto them on his old – _dead_ – flatmate's behalf.

 _"So they'll be here when he returns,"_ is what he wants to say, what he knows to be the ending of that thought. He refuses to let himself think it, though.

A lot of it goes into storage, but John keeps some of it to himself, for his new flat. He hangs the bison skull and its headphones over his bed. He puts the _human_ skull on his bedside table. It may be creepy, but John's come to accept its presence. He has a custom print of the smiley face that lives on the wall of 221B by his artist ex-sister-in-law Clara, who pointedly does not ask him how Harry is doing. It's the only purchase he makes himself for his new flat.

The lucky cat that Sherlock bought – John wants to say "bought _him_ " – sits on the mantle in the other room. Sherlock's violin is in its case, propped up by the window where it would sit unplayed. Sherlock's microscope suffers the same fate on the kitchen counter.

John is torn between sentiment and practicality, between keeping the items that he has no use for and selling or donating them to people who could actually use them. He feels like he has brought 221B with him, but he forces himself to pretend that they are just harmless mementos, nothing more. He also forces himself to not think about the giant cardboard box in the corner of his room full of Sherlock's clothes. He especially doesn't think of how he would sometimes, on bad days, take one of Sherlock's shirts and inhale his scent. It makes him feel like he's more than in grief; he's obsessed.

He is not obsessed enough, however, to move the frozen body parts into his new flat, despite what sentimental value or otherwise it might hold.

*

 

John receives a package a couple days later. He has trouble getting it through the door. It's from Mycroft, who's trying to compensate for everything. He has half the mind to send it back, but he realizes that he doesn't know Mycroft's address. Fine. He'll deliver it to the Diogenes Club. See how they like it.

And then he opens it out of curiosity and changes his mind. Mycroft's still a cold, conniving bastard, and if he thinks that expensive, new television sets are going to change that, then he's a lot less smarter than John thought. Nevertheless, John still accepts the present just to spite him. It doesn't change anything between them, doesn't touch any of the ugly feelings that John harbors against the elder Holmes, but John has a new telly now, and that's the only thing that changes.

He calls Mike over to help him install it; Mike's good with these things. It's the first time since his death that he's willingly had any interaction with any of his friends or acquaintances. John wonders what it means and then reminds himself that he's not a therapist, and it would do no good to try and ask Ella.

Mike comes over, and they have a few beers, catch up with old times, that sort of stuff. He is horrifically unimpressed with John's new flat and takes it upon himself to throw him a flat-warming party. John feebly tries to talk him out of it but gives up. Maybe it would do him some good. Mike invites everyone, and when he says everyone, he means _everyone_. The whole Scotland Yard, their old friends from medical school, a few of John's retired army friends, a number of John's ex-girlfriends, Molly, Harry, _everyone_. John only manages to catch a few glimpses of the guest list, and he pales at the sheer amount of names, but Mike refuses to budge.

Thankfully, not everyone who was invited shows up. Lestrade is the only one from the Scotland Yard who shows up, to John's relief; he's not sure that he could handle being in the same room with cretins like Anderson and Donovan so soon. A few of John's exes show up, the ones that he's on good terms with, anyway. They don't linger too long on the topic of Sherlock, which John is grateful for. Even dead, Sherlock still hasn't managed to shake his reputation as the world's biggest asshole. Mycroft even swings by and makes a few smug comments about the TV, which makes John slightly regret accepting it. None of the new neighbors show up, which slightly defeats the purpose of the party. The party is tiring, but John gets through it without breaking anything or making anyone cry. He is left with a number of kitchen appliances that he doesn't know how to use, and a few novelty trinkets, including a porcelain otter, which, coincidentally, he thinks slightly resembles Sherlock.

He collapses on the couch afterward and turns on his new telly. There's a late night _Doctor Who_ marathon going on, and he watches it, half-interested. They're showing “The Impossible Astronaut,” which John's already seen, but there's no harm in watching it again.

 _The couch is comfortable_ , he thinks as he watches the Doctor regenerate and then get shot by the astronaut. The yellow light that Eleven gives off, it reminds him of the light on the rooftop. Except, the one on the rooftop was a bit more muted, and it reminds John of a blot of ink or food coloring gradually dispersing through water. Still, the resemblance is uncanny.

Another _Doctor Who_ quote drifts through his head as he falls asleep.

 _“Never ignore a coincidence,”_ says the Doctor's/Matt Smith's voice. For a brief moment, John feels like it's important, but he gives away to his nightmares and relives Sherlock falling off St. Bart's all over again.

When he wakes up, his face is mashed against the remote, and some sort shitty teenage-drama on BBC3. His back is stiff, and there's a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch. He is too late for work to think about the _Doctor Who_ rerun that he watched last night.


	3. Mary Mary, Quite Uncontrary – Contrary was always Sherlock's Job.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock always, whether inadvertently or not, caused John's breakups. Some things never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should've mentioned that I'm horrible at updating?  
> I have half of the next chapter written. I've had this one written for some time now, but I just needed to edit it.  
> I don't deserve to be a writer.

 John Watson is an emotionally-scarred, devastated man. He is also a lonely man. So he starts dating again. He goes on a lot of first dates and even a few second dates. Third dates, not so much. There are no fourth dates. Eventually, even he notices something about all of his dates: they all share something in common with his late detective. There's Natasha who is just as cryptic as the man himself, displaying little to no emotions (What flickers of emotions she did display when they were dating John suspected to be ingenuine.); Lisabeth who is not only dark-haired and sharp cheek-boned, but also blunt and freakishly-intuitive, although not nearly as accurate as Sherlock; Madge who is as pale as a sheet and a musician. He doesn't realize this until after he finds out that Katie is actually one of Sherlock's cousins on his mother's side. She dumps him not long afterward, her reason being that "it's too weird being the rebound for my dead cousin."

All those months ago, Irene was right; they are – were – a couple. It had just taken John this long to accept it. That didn't mean that he's gay (Did it?); if anything, he is Sherlock-sexual. John suddenly realizes that he loves him, that he's been in love with him, and that there's nothing he can do about it. Sherlock had slowly crept up on him when he wasn't looking, and now he's wasted his time pretending he didn't know. John isn't gay, but he loves Sherlock and only Sherlock. And then he meets Mary.

Mary is the complete opposite of Sherlock, both physically and personality-wise. She's short, curvy, with straw-colored hair and a sprinkle of brown freckles dotting her button nose. She is cute and sweet and smells like freshly-cut Spring flowers. She is clumsy and spacey; they met when she literally bumped into him on the street, pouring her hot coffee all down his shirt. She is everything that Sherlock wasn't, and her vibrant personality rubs off of John, and some of the sadness that John feels goes away when he's with her.

They have a first date and a second, third, and even a fourth. They go on a short trip to Spain and afterward, John moves in with her. All of Sherlock's odd possessions go into storage. He is happier and in love, but he also still loves Sherlock very much, maybe even more. He doesn't dwell on it, though. It makes him feel guilty.

Mary's flat is normal and generic, like all of his ex-girlfriends' flats. He misses 221B, with its cozy chaos and domestic disorder. Mary's flat feels like a furniture store. He does not tell her about it; he does not tell her anything about her life with Sherlock. He tries to hide the grief from her; he tries to hide his whole former life. He even keeps his visits to Ella from her, although they themselves are becoming more and more infrequent. He doesn't want to share any of it with her; he doesn't want another person to pretend like they understand, to sympathize, to pity him. He doesn't want to talk about Sherlock out loud because it feels like his presence diminishes even further every time he does, and John is desperately holding on. Most of all, he doesn't want Mary to know that he is still in love with him.

John dates his life as _Before Sherlock_ , _With Sherlock_ , and _After Sherlock_. He tries to keep his life now – After Sherlock – as separate from With Sherlock as possible. He tries so hard. It hurts almost more than his grief. He doesn't think he can try much longer.

Mary notices gradually, though,that he's always sad when he thinks she's not looking, like Sherlock was before. John can't hide it forever; he is only human, and he slips up. He is not an actor; he is not Sherlock, able to cry on command or charm the pants off of Molly for body parts. He could never act convincingly enough when it really mattered, though. And neither can John.

Mary asks him one day, confronts him. Defensively, begrudgingly, he tells her “My best friend died in June, and I'm still coping with it.” She looks at him with the same ingenuine sympathy as everyone else's, and he can't help but to be irritated by it. He feels his hair prickle up and his jaw clench.

“How did he die?” she prompts. John feels a sharp stab of pain.

“He fell off a building,” he says bluntly, as emotionlessly as he can manage, looking straight ahead. There is a heavy silence as Mary waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. Mary opens her mouth again, but closes it when she finally sees the hostile grief etched deeply in his face. She drops the subject and moves on. John never tells her Sherlock's name. This is the first time John feels any sort of animosity towards Mary. Sherlock tended to drive him against all his girlfriends – or his girlfriends against him – at one point or another. Not much has changed since then. John mentally bemoans Sherlock's effect on his sanity. That hasn't changed either.

*

Mary shows him her locket one day, or rather, she calls attention to it, as she never takes it off. It's a simple, modest locket in the shape of a perfect circle. John had always assumed that it was a present from a beloved someone-or-another. People do tend to do those things.

 _Sentiment, Sherlock would've called it_ , John thinks, smiling to himself.

“John, you know that I was married before, right?” Mary says, her finger absentmindedly tracing patterns into the silver pendant.

“Yes, I was aware of that fact.”

“Well, like you, he was a soldier – a colonel – who served in Iraq.” Mary pauses, her lips pressing tightly into a line that she fights to keep straight. She looks as if she is in pain, as if she is about to cry. John doesn't know quite what to do, so he just awkwardly sits there, pretending not to see.

“Unlike you, he didn't make it out. I just wanted you to know that I'm still feeling what you're going through now.” She finally finishes, her voice raw and hollow. She stops fighting her tears, and John opens up his arms. If Sherlock was the one person that he could trust in his old life, then Mary is the one now. No more secrets. He is free to mourn openly once more. He can finally stop trying.

*

Mycroft calls again. This time, John picks up almost immediately. He is desperate for details about Sherlock. Anything to help him hang onto the late detective. His late detective. Mycroft can tell; John can here it in his voice. Damn that Holmesian gift of deduction.

"Doctor Watson, I hear you are in a serious relationship once more." _Once more._ The implication hits John in the gut. Did everyone know before he did?

"Yeah, Mary," he says slowly, confused as to the direction of the conversation. "Listen, Mycroft, how's the investigation behind Sherlock's death going?"

"I can't say. Official Secrets Act and whatnot. But I will say that it is currently out of our depth, and we are consulting an expert. Some things never change."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Actually, it's about Miss Morstan. I did an intensive background check – standard protocol for your safety – and there's nothing about her besides the basics. I'd keep an eye on her if I were you."

"Oh, bugger off, Mycroft. I don't need you 'looking out' for me. It's too little, too late to be making amends. If you really want to apologize, you can tell me what's going on behind Sherlock. Don't drag Mary into this, okay?" John says irritably.

"I don't believe in coincidences, and neither did Sher-" John hangs up on him before he can finish. He remembers why he was so reluctant to answer Mycroft's calls before. John wonders how Lestrade handles it.


End file.
